Till it Stops Beating

by Hannah R. Goodman

  Peter puts the flowers in my face and says, “This good enough?”

  I nod my head and grab the bouquets.

  “They’re perfect,” I tell him.

  . . . . .

  “Maddie!”

  “Bubbie!”

  I’m lost in arms and kisses, enveloped in a lilac and cinnamon with a hint of mint scent that’s not her familiar smell. Her silky purple scarf tied around her head brushes my cheek. She hears me sniff her neck and holds me at arm’s length. “Joyce has me on all kinds of aromatherapy to help with the chemo side effects. Some of the stuff smells funny!” She wrinkles her nose.

  “Oh, I like this smell,” I tell her, anything that helps. “Now you’re having side effects?”

  “Not really. She says it’s preventative…along with all the herbs and vitamins she’s has me taking…and various voodoo doctors.

  “Voodoo doctors?”

  She shakes her head but smiles. “She’s coming for dinner tonight. I’ll have her explain it to you.”

  “Peter!” Bubbie turns to him as he comes behind me with his suitcase in one hand and my enormous rolling duffle in the other. She wraps her arms around his neck and they kiss each other’s cheeks.

  Larry is a few steps behind him.

  “Bubbie, this is our friend Larry. Larry this is my Bubbie, Helen.” Larry hands her the enormous yellow, white, and purple makeshift bouquet.

  Bubbie takes it and smiles. “Fresh cut? Hmm, these look very similar to the community garden down the street.”

  We look at each other.

  “Never mind. They’re beautiful.” She touches Larry’s arm and then looks at all of us. “Let’s get you all settled in,” she says.

  Bubbie tells us to figure out the sleeping arrangements. There is one spare bedroom, where Barb and I usually stay, and a fold out couch in the living room. I make the decision to have the fold out couch, and I give them the bedroom, which had two single beds in it. Both Larry and Peter are almost irritatingly happy.

  Larry and Peter pass out on the couch and Bubbie and I go down to the beach to take a walk before Joyce arrives for dinner. In typical San Francisco weather, the temperature is cooler than what the thermometer reads. Luckily, we brought thick afghans that Bubbie got from a recent yoga retreat.

  We settle on the sand up by some tall grass and she tucks her legs into a Buddha like position and wraps the afghan around her whole body. I stare at her profile. She closes her eyes and breathes in deeply.

  After a long silence she says, “You know, I feel pretty good still.”

  I pull the afghan around me tightly.

  Her hand goes to the scarf tied around her hair for a moment. “But I’m afraid of when I won’t. Not my hair falling out. Now it’s just one less thing to think about.” She smiles, but it’s tight. “The side effects of chemo can be brutal, unless you take all those pills to counteract the side effects and then those have side effects.”

  I want to tell her not to worry because I’ll take care of her.

  “But enough about me. Everything is about me lately, and it’s tiresome. Tell me about you. I barely got to talk to you at graduation. The last we talked about you, you and Sean had broken up, prom was fun with Peter, and you were all set for Emerson.”

  For a moment, I see myself telling her my plans, and I see her looking relieved. But I know that’s just the Maddie version. The reality version won’t go like my fantasy.

  “Justin’s in San Francisco.” I think I levitated at the end of the sentence.

  “Really?”

  “Really! He’s staying with his uncle who owns this new pizza restaurant down on the wharf. It’s called Big Tony’s or something?”

  “Big Tony is your Justin’s uncle?” Bubbie laughs. “No kidding? Joyce and I go there practically every Friday night. Justin will be working there?”

  “Yeah and he said something about taking some art classes.”

  “Oh the San Francisco Art Institute is a great place for art classes. Joyce and I took a few watercolor classes there. I was terrible of course. I should stick to writing!” Then she stops smiling. “Not that I’ve written anything in a year.”

  I reach out and touch her arm, although it’s covered in blanket. “You will Bub. When this is all over.”

  “I hope so,” she whispers. “Anyway, so Justin. This is a big deal. A very big deal.” She flashes me a knowing smile.

  “Yeah, it is,” I admit.

  We watch the surf for a few minutes and then I have to ask her:

  “What, exactly is the game plan?” I pull the afghan around my shoulders. “Your chemo schedule and everything?”

  “That’s just what your mom asked me this morning! Speaking of, you better call her tonight.” She adjusts the afghan around her shoulders. “Chemo is, “she knocks on her head, “not that bad. I do have a prescription for some medical marijuana.” She shakes her head. “Not sure how that works with my sobriety but not an issue right now.”

  “Is chemo every day?”

  “It’s every other day right now and not interfering with work, but I know that as the stuff settles into my system, I might feel crappy, even with Joyce’s magic potions. Luckily, I’m only teaching in the first summer session.” She studies my face. “I want to do our usual hike through Muir woods. I want to walk across the Golden Gate bridge like we’ve talked about but never done together.” She playfully gives me a little push. “But don’t you dare make me run!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, until I don’t feel like it. I want to live my life normally, fully!”

  I take a deep breath. My conscience tugging me about not telling her the whole truth and knowing that it’s only a matter of time before my mother spills it anyway.

  I push the afghan off of myself and stretch my arms out in back of me. “I need to tell you something,” I begin.

  Without looking at me and still calm and serene, she says, “I already know. Just waiting for you to tell me yourself.”

  But before I can say anything else I hear, “Hey, Helen! Helen, is that Maddie with you! Oh, Maddie so good to see you, sweetie.”

  Saved by Joyce.

  “This isn’t finished,” Bubbie says giving me the look reserved for things like not telling her everything. But then she reaches over and puts her arms around me.

  “You are very sweet, though, to want to take care of me,” she says rocking me close, and I bury my face into her cinnamon smelling neck, feel the cool silk of her scarf, happy to be in California.

  Chapter Eight

  “Scared you pretty bad!”

  The next morning, I roll out of the pull-out couch at 10:30. My mouth is dry and pasty. I walk through the living room and the hallway and reach the kitchen where Larry stands at the stove making scrambled eggs…or egg whites. It’s hard to tell from my bleary-eyed position in the doorway. He has an apron on that has a picture of a naked woman sitting in the lotus position.

  “Good morning, sunshine!”

  “Bubbie is already rubbing off on you.” I yawn. “Where’s everyone?”

  “Sleeping…Not Helen. She was out in her garden, and I think she’s in the shower now.

  I walk in and sit at the table. “God, I feel like shit. So tired.” I yawn again.

  “Get some energy because lover boy called.” Larry flashes his impish smile. “You left your phone in the living room, and I saw his name flash about three times. Once last night after you went to bed and twice this morning.”

  I open my mouth to respond when I hear soft padding footsteps behind me.
<
br />   In walks Bubbie, looking scrubbed pink and healthy. She has small brimmed sun hat covering her head and her arm through Peter’s, who looks equally robust.

  “Golden Gate Park,” Peter holds what looks like some tourist book on California in his hands. “Did you know it’s all man-made?”

  I know nothing about Golden Gate Park even though Bubbie used to take me there when I was little.

  “Every time Maddie visits we promise to take a walk across the bridge. It’s not very long.”

  “Let’s do it today.” Peter closes the book and sits next to me.

  “I think we should all spend the day on the beach,” Larry says sliding eggs onto one of the four plates he has on the counter.

  “June is still cold for the beach in San Francisco,” Bubbie says. “But I’m all for bundling up and hanging out. I have some papers to correct.”

  “What about the Golden Gate Park?” Peter asks.

  Larry walks over and serves Peter first. “We have three weeks here. We’ll get to it, promise.” He strokes his head like they’ve been together for years, and Peter melts right in front of us.

  “Get a room and not in my Bubbie’s apartment!”

  We all laugh, including Bubbie.

  We eat breakfast, which is way better than I expected from Larry. The beach wins over the park because, quite frankly, we are all exhausted from the trip. As we pack towels and lotion, Bubbie goes to the bathroom leaving me with Peter and Larry.

  “I gotta say, she doesn’t seem sick.”

  “I know,” I say.

  “You may not have a good excuse to stay in San Fran.” Peter adds.

  “Oh, Jesus!” From the bathroom, Bubbie yelps out.

  We all stop talking.

  “Oh shit!” and this is from my grandmother who rarely uses English swear words as Yiddish swearing is more emphatic according to her.

  We all rush to the half bathroom in the hallway.

  “Bubbie?” I knock on the door.

  “Everything all right in there?” There’s no trace of witty Larry on his face.

  I hear the toilet flush and the sink turn on. The three of us stand mouths open waiting.

  Then the door opens. Bubbie, her bald head smooth and shiny, looks aggravated like she just realized she left a bag of groceries at the supermarket and has to go back. But what she says is, “I gotta call my doctor. There’s blood.”

  . . . . .

  Bubbie is in her bedroom with the door closed, on the phone with her doctor. We all sit frozen on the couch. A box of tissues half on my lap and half on Peters. No one is crying, but for some reason I grabbed the box when we went to sit down and wait for Bubbie to call her doctor. I tear a tissue into bits and make small piles on my lap. I stare at the Matisse poster of three women dancing in a circle on the wall.

  Then my phone buzzes on the coffee table. Larry’s face brightens, and I feel mine get warm.

  When I look at the caller ID, it’s “Mom”.

  She always has impeccable timing.

  “You should answer it,” Peter says.

  I shake my head and Larry nods. “Not yet. Call her later.”

  I let it keep ringing and each buzz causes the inside of my body to tighten up, particularly my chest. Peter grabs my hand. When it stops, we all get quiet. Waiting.

  . . . . .

  When Bubbie finally opens the door of her bedroom, her eyes are red, but she looks relatively calm. Her scarf is back on.

  “The doctor can see me at two.”

  “We’ll all go,” Larry says.

  After changing back to land clothes, we file into Larry’s car, top up not down. In the backseat with Bubbie, I hold her hand and with my other one I grip my phone. Justin has called, yet again.

  “Call him, sweetie. I’m not dying or anything.”

  She smiles, but I don’t. I just look out the window. “Not now.”

  . . . . .

  A half hour later the four of us are sitting in the waiting room of Dr. Schlosberg, a premier cancer specialist in the Bay area. We sit tightly, not reading the various collections of National Geographic, Vanity Fair, and Ladies Home Journal. I haven’t let go of Bubbie’s hand, Larry has his arm on Peter’s chair, and Peter has his arm around me.

  A woman comes out of the closed door wearing pink doggie scrubs. “Helen Kurland?”

  “I’ll come with you,” I say to Bubbie.

  “No, honey. You guys wait here.” She gets up and pats my knee. “I’ll be fine.”

  Larry moves to sit on the other side of me. He puts his hand in mine and says, “As soon as we leave, you need to call Justin.”

  Peter leans in and adds, “He’s called me three times now. You have to call him back.”

  “We may be here a while. You could go call him out there.”

  “Guys,” my throat is tight. “Please, stop. “I glance around at the other people in the waiting room, most of which are staring dully at the flat screen TV that blares CNN news about yet another conflict in the Middle East

  We sit in silence, but I untwine myself from them both. After fifteen minutes of staring at the spotless blue carpet, I stand up.

  They both look at me hopeful, but I shake my head. “Going to get a soda.”

  I push open the swinging door to the main entrance of the building a little more roughly than I meant to. My face gets hot as I walk into the wide hallway and search for vending machine.

  Then my phone. Rings.

  My stomach clenches and my heart grows huge and thudding.

  Frankly I’ve had too much therapy to not know that despite Bubbie’s situation now and in general, it has nothing to do with why I’m not calling Justin back. Because the only thing stopping me is me.

  I answer it.

  “Hi.”

  “Are you here?”

  I laugh. “Yes. Actually, I’m at the doctor’s.”

  “Is Bubbie okay?”

  I don’t speak for at least a solid minute and the tears collect silently in my lower lids.

  He finally says. “I can come sit with you.”

  I find my voice, although it’s shaky. “No, no. I haven’t seen you in a long time, and I don’t want our great reunion to be in a friggin’ hospital.”

  I hear him make a kind of frustrated noise. “Will you call me, though? As soon as you hear something? As soon as you leave? Or if you’re staying, call me.”

  “I’ll call you,” I tell him. “Promise.”

  . . . . .

  “Pass me the parmesan cheese—”

  “Hand me the salt—”

  “Can I have that spicy pepper stuff?”

  “Hand me a napkin, hon, will you?”

  “Can I get anybody anything?” Uncle Tony, an über Italian man with curly salt and pepper hair that has the sheen of a well-oiled pair of black shoes, claps his hands together and grins. “Anybody want some more of those little necks? We got plenty!”

  “Me!” Peter swipes the grease from his lips. Even health nut Larry nods his head.

  “One more round of little necks coming!” Then he leans down and says not so quietly to Justin, “You told me Maddie was gorgeous, but you forgot to mention her grandmother.” I watch Bubbie stop chewing and look over at Tony. He winks.

  And she winks back.

  After he disappears through the double red doors of the kitchen Bubbie says, “Mmmm, this is so good. Can we do this after every impromptu colonoscopy?”

  “They gave you
a colonoscopy?”

  I grab the napkins and hand them to Bubbie and say to Justin, “No. A little colon cancer humor.”

  He cracks his adorable but kind of mischievous smile, his blue eyes definitely greyer then I remember. Do eyes change as you get older or had I never really looked carefully?

  That I am sitting thigh to thigh in a cozy booth next to him, that I smell this unfamiliar soap mixed with guy deodorant scent, that I feel his breath on my cheek when he laughs, these are all tiny details that imprint themselves on me as we eat dinner. Admittedly the euphoria of finding out that Bubbie is fine, that this might just be the first good summer I’ve had in years, these are all my thoughts as I pull a blob of cheese from my pizza and pop it in my mouth.

  It turns out, the blood she saw in her stool was just from her fastidious hygiene habits. And it turns out, Justin while on the phone with me, was on his way …he had already talked to Peter. Now we were back in town at Big Tony’s Pizzeria, enjoying my favorite mushroom and cheese. New York style, floppy and big so you can fold it. Yum.

  My reunion with Justin wasn’t filled with swelling classical music, and I wasn’t dressed in my flowing best. But it was still pretty good. Because as soon as I hung up the phone and turned around, he was walking through the double doors of the building. And thanks to surprising me there was no time to stop myself from running into his arms.

  It was pretty awesome.

  And now, laughing with some of my most favorite people in the world all together eating the best pizza ever, I declare to myself that I will finally, finally have a good summer.

  . . . . .

  Right before bed that night I walk into Bubbie’s room. She’s reading a gardening magazine. Her glasses are on the end of her nose and she’s wearing a soft blue cotton scarf on her head.

  “Scared you pretty bad today, huh?” She says.